


Gift Wrapping

by DeadlyBagel



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Night Furies (How to Train Your Dragon), Survival
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:35:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28792536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeadlyBagel/pseuds/DeadlyBagel
Summary: The bow on top of A Gift of Wings, additional scenes, deleted scenes, and alternate scenes that don't fit into the main story. None of it is necessary to read, it's just there to add to the story.
Kudos: 12





	1. The Choice of Life (AGoW 1)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Gift of Wings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18341306) by [DeadlyBagel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeadlyBagel/pseuds/DeadlyBagel). 



> Welcome to my collection of odds and ends, additional scenes that don't fit into the main story and deleted scenes that got scrapped. At time of writing I have precious little content for this, so do tell if there is anything extra you'd like to see; additional scenes are uncommon because I can almost always just fit them into the main story, and deleted scenes don't tend to happen with meticulous planning and the flexibility of the main plot.
> 
> This additional scene fits in right at the start of story in chapter 1, during the spring, and comes to me at a time I really should be sleeping. It doesn't fit mainly because part of my intent for AGoW was presenting dragon perspectives and hooking the reader before slapping them with the transformation concept; if I'd found a story like this, I would have got into the genre much more quickly. Therefore I couldn't have Wanderer give the game away, so this couldn't be shown. Secondly… this is a gut punch that doesn't fit the chapter, and actually hits harder once the rest of the circumstances are known. You'll see what I mean.

Wanderer moved slowly, delicately, claws finding purchase wherever they could and ears trained for the slightest sound. There was little wind, but the thin branches sank and swayed as he progressed, barely supporting his weight. 

This was not a dangerous hunt, but it was not without risk. The wafting scents of feathers and wing-prey kept him focused, reminded him of what was at stake. He needed to eat. Right now, in this moment, he couldn't afford to think of anything else. Of anything other than the warm, life-sustaining eggs in the temporarily vacant little bundle of twigs a mere body-length away. 

He moved one paw at a time, an agonisingly slow process of testing the ever-thinning branches before trusting them to support him, spreading his weight as best he could among them as they shifted around, similarly to how the little nest clung to many of them.

He was nearly there. He could smell the dry protein in the shells; unpleasant in themselves, but still nutrition, and containing something much more appetising. He was nearly there. He just had to-

With only a moment of warning, he squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head as something swooped at him, small talons digging into his ears in a failed attempt to blind him. He endured the brief attack, then picked up the pace; the only risk in falling was that he would lose the meal.

Again, the subtle snap of feathery wings jerking in the air forewarned him of the attack, but this time the wing-prey actually landed on his head, digging its claws into his ear and head to peck at his eyes with loud squawks.

He did not give it much of a chance, shaking it off his head and quickly pouncing it before it could get away.

But the thin branches, already barely supporting him, could not sustain such excitement.

He needed to eat. Even as the twigs snapped under his paws and beneath the flailing wing-prey, he dragged his claws through it, tearing clumps of feathers from its wings and ensuring it could not get away. And then, as he fell, the little nest of sticks rolled to the side and tipped the precious meal it contained out into the air with them. 

He fell. The wing-prey fell. The two eggs fell.

He acted without thinking, working his tiny wings to reach the nearest egg and grabbing it in his mouth as gently as he could in the heat of the moment. The other egg had already hit a stick and splattered into the air, but maybe he could save this one-!

The wing-prey hit the ground, and he landed heavily on his paws nearby – and then his heart sank as the hard object in his mouth sagged. Its delicious contents touched his tongue a moment later, and he could do nothing but tip his head back and let it all slide down into his belly.

The wing-prey squawked again, flailing its ruined wings and fighting to get away from him. He swiftly grabbed it in his teeth and shook vigorously. It went limp, and he spat it out.

It wasn't a small prey, not to him now. It would feed him.

But then it would not feed his Dreamer.

He whined, then sniffed around hopelessly for the other egg, finding spatters of it here and there; barely worth lapping up, but he did so anyway.

The hunger still gnawed at him. It wasn't enough. The warm meat of the dead wing-prey beckoned.

He walked back to it and stood over the crumpled mess of feathers. If he ate now, he couldn't risk carrying any of it back to Dreamer; he was far from their den, and the smell of blood would attract land-hunters and maybe other wing-hunters. He would need to eat it all himself, and his greedy fledgling body would not give up any food it had eaten as his adult body could.

To eat, and chance a hunt for his Dreamer, or carry this all back now to share?

He picked up the wing-prey again and started dragging it through the forest. This was the less risky decision, hunting had not been good recently and Dreamer had not eaten in two nights, and precious little then. But it was not without risk itself, and he remained wary of other hunters, though as long as he did not shed the prey's blood he should be safe.

The sounds of the forest were loud in his ears as he alternately carried and dragged the prey to their den, remaining wary that this infuriatingly small body was unable to defend the kill or even fly with it. He could barely fly himself. He  _ liked _ having both tail-fins again, and didn't miss the sensitive strip of tail where the bones had been ripped out, but being this small was stifling in more ways than one.

Finally, he reached the cliff overlooking their little beach, and took the prey in his mouth to glide down to the den with it. He hit the rock hard, unable to properly support the extra weight, but then he proudly carried it into the den-

And froze, dropping it to the rock.

His Dreamer lay motionless, unmoving, silent. But then to his immense relief, the little Nightstriker lifted his head and turned to him, his eyes igniting with that spark of recognition and happiness that had Wanderer convinced this really was his Dreamer even if it was not.

But he did not look well. Dreamer stood, his gangly legs looking downright unhealthy in how thin they were, and he moved with an unsteadiness that Wanderer had not seen in him before. His breaths were shallow, and his wings and tail dragged over the ground.

"This for you," Wanderer said spontaneously, nosing the prey forward while his stomach clawed at him in vehement protest. "All for you."

Dreamer's gaze went to the meal, his eyes narrowing… And then he lunged for it, immediately ripping off an entire leg and swallowing it whole, feathers and all. He tore at the hole, pulling the prey apart to get to the tasty meats inside with a frantic haste that made Wanderer nauseous, though it didn't diminish the temptation to fight him off and claim his own share.

Wanderer turned away, then walked out of the den, taking shallow breaths so as to disturb his aching stomach as little as possible, each exhale carrying a small whine.

He didn't know if he could do this. He wasn't strong enough to catch enough food for both of them, not to both be sated. He couldn't even sate his own hunger, could barely catch more than what he needed to be able to hunt. The stronger he was, the more he could catch… but the hungrier he grew, the weaker he became. His chances of catching anything would go down the longer he failed to catch anything. 

The night was not yet over… He turned and looked up the cliff that protected their den, surrounding it like the warm, comforting embrace of-

He shook his head and leaped before he could think too much about it, gripping the rough stone with his sharp little claws and flapping his wings to help make the little jumps up the sheer wall. It protected them, but it was an energy investment to overcome every night, and it had not looked so big in his adult body.

Finally, he clambered up onto the grass above, and lay there panting. He was in worse shape than he had thought. Maybe he should not have been so generous with his catch.

He couldn't think about that now. This little body was so flighty, keen to act on half-formed thoughts and without considering the consequences. It was only the constant need to survive that kept him focused at all. He hadn't thought through giving his catch to Dreamer, but it was done. Fighting over it now would just be a waste of energy.

A small whine escaped him as he stood, legs trembling a little, and then he clenched his teeth and set out onto the forest. If this was what he needed to do…

Not for the first time, he wondered. He did not consider his own survival more important, but he could survive on his own. Dreamer could not. There was no point in them both starving.

_ Wrrr, _ he had already given Dreamer his prey. It was done. Next time it would be a question again, but next time would have new circumstances.

If there was a next time.

He reached the steep descent he always walked to and jumped into the air, wings stretched wide, and weaved between the trunks, watching for stick-nests in the branches and land-prey dens in the ground. He was having to travel farther and farther to find food, as it was past the season for making new dens and nests, but sometimes he took a new route and found something he'd missed.

The ground below him became rocky and hostile, so he angled around and followed the edge of what he could traverse on paw, just in case he needed to walk back. Prey might also burrow into the rocks…

He watched, and dropped down to scent the ground, but the prey that he could catch was scarce. He spotted a few nests in the trees, but with wing-prey protecting them, and he was still too small to fight them off for their eggs; if they noticed his approach, which they certainly would with how their nests were built in the flimsy little branches, then they were quite good at cutting him off and shaking him from the branches without endangering their eggs.

With nothing in his belly but the egg from earlier and now a crunchy little thing he'd found slowly climbing a tree, he hung his head and turned back to the den as the sky-sparks started fading. Sleeping would be uncomfortable, and if he failed to catch anything the next night…

If he failed to catch anything again, he would be too weak to hunt. He'd probably make it another night, but would rely on something practically putting itself between his teeth. It was very possible that he'd doomed himself, and thus Dreamer as well.

He huffed bitterly. He was the strongest nest-kin, even stronger than the giant queen that had held him with insidious claws in his mind. He knew that only a Nightstriker could survive like this almost from hatching – with the aid of a big land-prey he'd caught before transferring – but it stung his pride that after everything he had been through, he was on the verge of succumbing to simple hunger.

The wind picked up as he coasted down to the den, and though he was tempted to soar and fly for fun for the first time in this agile little body, he needed to conserve his strength; it was in desperately short supply. Despite knowing it was foolish, he held hope that Dreamer had saved him some…

Dreamer was still picking at the morsels of the prey, surrounded by feathers but with barely a speck of blood to be seen. "Wanderer!" he barked, hastily cleaning off his claws and then bounding over in his uncoordinated hatchling way. "Teach fly!" He threw his wings out and heaved them, his eager, excited expression momentarily giving way to shock as he nearly threw himself onto his back.

_ Adoration, love, _ Wanderer hummed, his regret and disappointment dissipating like smoke in the wind. "Wings, then sleep, then fly," he said. His Dreamer looked more alive than he could ever remember, if still frighteningly thin… other than his sagging belly. Wanderer wondered if he even  _ could _ fly with all that food in him, though he didn't seem to have much trouble bouncing around the den, chirping happily.

He would make this work. He would continue to hunt for both of them, whatever the cost. If he couldn't do it… then they would both die. But at least he will have  _ tried _ to save his Dreamer, the same way his Dreamer had tried so hard to save him.

"Come," he purred warmly, gesturing to the mouth of the den where a gentle breeze was passing by. "Open wings, feel wind. Like this."

Dreamer paid rapt attention to the unusual lesson, doing his best to copy and understand. This would be a difficult start to life for him too, and Wanderer could not carry him into the sky to let him learn flying by figuring it out, but Dreamer was a fighter, and an immensely strong person. He would get through it.

It took a surprisingly long time for him to tire – maybe he hadn't been neglecting his wings as much as Wanderer had thought – but he very suddenly looked ready to drop from exhaustion.

"Good," Wanderer hummed, then nudged him back into the den where they collapsed in a pile, both as exhausted as each other. He lightly chewed Dreamer's shoulder – his hunger instinctively making itself known, though Dreamer seemed to enjoy it so he didn't stop himself – and nestled in close, savouring the warmth and familiar contact. Just this moment here was worth being hungry.

"Wan…der…" Dreamer mumbled sleepily. "What word for… you, me? Me, you? Us?"

Wanderer hummed thoughtfully. What  _ were _ they to each other? Not as blood-kin, he didn't like that thought. He pushed his little mind to think ahead, to the bright fantasy where they had lots of food and played with each other in the sky before sleeping on a warm rock in the light of the sky-fire, big and strong and unafraid and  _ together. _ Females were not part of his fantasy, but he knew they would be one day, and Sire had said it was easier for two males to find mates… They would grow big and strong together, play together and fight together and sometimes fight each other but that was all good and part of growing. They would find mates together and nest together and live many lives together.

"Friend-mate," he said, then nuzzled his sleepy little Dreamer.

"That mean… we together… always…?"

"Always," Wanderer purred.

A quiet snore had him wondering if Dreamer was even still awake. "Good," came a sleepy mumble, then another snore.  _ Wrrr, _ he might not have been awake for any of it.

He nestled in between Dreamer's ears, holding him close and willing himself to sleep. Whatever happened… they would get through it. Both of them. Somehow.


	2. With Best Intentions (AGoW 71)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This entry is half canon, half deleted scene. Basically, everything within it is canon to AGoW, and there are a lot of hints and details as to the past and foreshadowing of what is to come, far more than what I was able to port into the next chapter. However, after discussing it with my beta, we agreed the actual implementation of it just didn't mesh with the story. So it was split into this scene, the rest was added to chapter 70, and chapter 72 got moved forward.
> 
> I still really like this scene, on its own at least; I'm glad I started this side series when I did, so I can still post it. Also, yes, I do enjoy taking things literally.

_ Flat, plain white walls lit by their own gentle glow silently receded to reveal a bare room of much the same style, lacking any sort of decoration or nuance to appear anything other than strictly functional. It was a relief after the confines of the shaft, leading who knew how far down into the sea, but it wasn't much of a welcome. Its only feature was the platform that Owen had just descended into it on. _

_ As he stepped off into the bare room, part of one of the walls receded to reveal another room beyond. There was next to no sound, even to his own augmented hearing, just that of his boots touching against the floor and his own breath. There was also next to no indication they were at the bottom of the ocean, the crushing pressure held back by the sheer strength of the structure. _

_ The doorway revealed a cluttered room, thick cables tidily organised around the edges connecting various machines. It took Owen several moments to spot who he was looking for, sitting at a terminal surrounded by floating designs and data. "Arthur," he greeted curtly. _

_ "Father," Arthur replied flatly, without turning around. His sandy hair was long and messy, much more so than he used to keep it, but little more could be seen of him. "You wished to converse." _

_ "I wanted to talk," Owen agreed, walking into the room to look around. Admittedly, he barely understood half the things his son wrought, his understanding of certain sciences unparalleled and only complimented by the steep intellect of his mad mistress. _

_ "But you also desire responses," Arthur replied absently, touching a finger to a diagram to his side and dragging it around in front of himself. "By definition, a conversation. You are not just here to talk." _

_ Owen took a deep breath, reminding himself it wasn't intended as disrespectfully as it sounded; just one of his son's many quirks. "I need to know what was taken," he said sternly, cutting straight to the point. _

_ "Taken?" Arthur asked, sounding genuinely confused. "You know I am not so careless. Even after five years." _

_ Five years since they had made contact. Five years since Arthur had retreated to these laboratories, working on his own solution to the calamity. "You say that as if it was intentional," Owen said darkly, a frustration and anger building within. "Why?" _

_ "It is of no threat," was the simple reply. "And because he is my brother." _

_ "He killed your real brother," Owen spat. _

_ "And the vessel I allowed him is diurnal, while my Nightlancers are nocturnal," Arthur replied sadly. "I help him for old times' sake. We might not be related by blood, but what does that matter?" He brought up another little hologram, its glow leaking between his cupped fingers. "Particularly now. Our blood shall soon be dust on the wind." _

_ "Will you please look at me?" Owen asked with a sigh, looking for somewhere to sit. "Can we put all that aside and just talk?" _

_ Arthur let his head fall back, then turned his chair and crossed his legs. He had lost weight, but muscle too, and there was a calm weight to his gaze that had not been there the last time they had met. "Very well. I will converse with you." _

_ "Thank you," Owen said, managing to sound grateful. "Things he's saying… I don't know how much to believe. But it is evidently not your final design, as he seems to think." _

_ "Almost," Arthur agreed with a fond grin. "He has the final prototype. It will give him a good chance of survival, if he notices what is coming with enough time." _

_ "May I see it?" He wanted to demand and order obedience, but Arthur was much more likely to cooperate when treated as an equal; however much that was not the case. _

_ But Arthur shook his head. "He has the only copy. He had to believe it, you know how he is. But it is similar…" He contemplated that for a minute, then turned and extracted something from his terminal, the holograms around him winking out, and tossed it to Owen. _

_ Catching it with ease, Owen eyed the hexagonal bit suspiciously. His ocular implant registered it as optical storage rimmed with dark molecular mesh, the same material as the walls, light and rigid but practically indestructible. Arthur gestured to a slot in the terminal by the centre of the room, and Owen fitted the bit to it. _

_ Another vessel was projected into the air. The first difference Owen noticed was that it was near enough to black, a few shades off so as to better blend into shadow. Even including that, there appeared to be only superficial changes at a glance, slightly different shape to the face, wings, paws… Arthur simply stared, saying nothing, so Owen began exploring the design, offensive capabilities being his first priority. _

_ At a gesture, the design expanded into individual components, flooding the boundaries of the display. "Complex," Owen noted. Mutation and genetic degradation would be an issue within a few hundred generations, and a vessel this small would not live more than a few hundred years at the very most. Arthur remained silent, so he started sifting through it, looking for what sort of projectile it undoubtedly had. _

_ "I can't make sense of this," he admitted after a time. It didn't help that in addition to the design, there were notes and references to various prototypes that had tested each feature. "What can I expect to rain on my laboratory?" _

_ "Nothing," Arthur replied. "But for argument's sake, the Nightlancer vessel fires explosive bolts at extreme range. Prototype one-one-five has slightly more power, but much less range and capacity." He tapped something in the sea of components and brought up the figures, which referenced the white design Owen had glimpsed a few days prior. "Oh, the prototype can also camouflage, but I took that out in favour of hardened scales. Mostly that was for him, he always liked his smoke and mirrors." _

_ As usual, Arthur had warped the notion of established limits, somehow cramming the strength of a small matter cannon into something so small and mobile… that could also camouflage, and was organic and thus wouldn't register on most sensors. "A dozen of these, in skilled hands, would leave me with little chance," Owen said angrily. "Get to the part where this is not an issue." _

_ "The only reason I invited you to Valahar," Arthur explained calmly but firmly as he navigated the terminal, "was for that very purpose. All my vessels are susceptible to infrasonic instruction. It's been useful." The hearing, Owen recognised as it was brought up, processed low frequency sounds a bit differently, redirecting input to lower thought processes in a way that would allow communication… or control, in a sense, the same way organic automata were given instructions. It was subtle enough to only be noticed if one knew what to look for. _

_ That was a relief, he could definitely work with that. He relaxed, collapsing the vessel to get a better look at it. Fierce, was a word that came to mind to describe it, black and sleek with sharp teeth and claws, and angular wings and fins. "You know I am proud of you," he said quietly. _

_ "Bit late for that," Arthur grumbled. "But I appreciate it." _

_ "How did you slow degradation in such a small, complex design?" Owen asked curiously, expanding the model more cautiously to keep track of where everything went. Wait… He followed a familiar gene, expanding it. "Genetic drift?" Developed to reduce the numbers required to perpetuate a species, but useless when applied on an individual level; any sort of random gene manipulation  _ had _ to be done centrally with an overview of all subjects when applied on any practical scale. The more he looked, the less sense it all made. "Even in purely theoretical conditions, with zero stress," he observed, "only fifty percent fertility?" And it dropped off sharply from there. _

_ "A female so much as worried about children cannot have them," Arthur confirmed. "Physically incapable of exceeding available resources." He stared intently at Owen. "I will not repeat our mistakes. It is our own fault that the most habitable environment for the last five years has been down here." _

_ "I can guess which of you had that idea," Owen said dryly; there were simpler, more direct methods, ones that didn't rely on chance for survival. "But-" _

_ "My ears are burning," said a new, bodiless voice, seeming to come from the room itself. It was that of a woman, but  _ not _ Helen's as he would have expected – rather, he recognised the subtle tells of artificial dictation. "Arthur," the voice whined piteously, "get rid of him, quickly." _

_ "Helen," Arthur scolded lightly, eyeing the model, "I am conversing with my father." _

_ "I can hear as much," the voice snapped. "And I know you don't like using the bridge, but we spent all yesterday making your male parts into something I actually like looking at, and I have spent all morning staring at him. If you don't get inside him, and then get him inside me, I'm going to tear down this wall and drag you there myself." _

_ "Crass as always," Owen observed. _

_ "Bite me. If you survive me biting you first." _

_ He scoffed. She  _ was _ one to back up threats with action, but the entire structure was a single molecule, not something that could be just broken down. _

_ Arthur raised an eyebrow with a slight smirk. "She is only bluffing because she can't stand the feel of the floor any more. I suspect because mesh conducts vibrations so well, like it does light. Please don't antagonise her, it would be a pain to set all this up again." _

_ "But…" Owen frowned at him. "That would mean…" He turned his attention back to the vessel, the one Helen was apparently already using, and started sifting through it. They were both well known for seemingly ignoring the rules of the universe, but… _

_ He exhaled and slumped back as he found it, an  _ organic _ ignition and reactor chamber down the length of the spine. "Molnir," he whispered. _

_ A substance with mass but zero atoms. Tangible energy. A metaphorical sledgehammer that had inevitably turned a bad war into near enough the end of the world. It was a substance with more than a few bizarre properties, including the ability to conduct  _ itself _ resulting in a highly volatile 'activated' state. Arthur had discovered it and the majority of its properties, but it had been Helen who had used it to rip consciousness from the body and put it in another; her notoriety as the mistress of death was well earned. _

_ In amidst all this chaos, she had forged the key to immortality. Owen did not regret taking it, but he did regret the rift it had made between him and his son. _

_ It was the missing link that connected all these inconsistencies. If every individual lived forever, more or less, the rate of breeding was almost irrelevant, but population control was  _ significantly _ more important. The complexity of the genes was not an issue if early generations survived to persistently reintroduce their 'pure' genes. Although, the inclusion of genetic drift was still a mystery. _

_ "It wasn't easy," Arthur said while Owen stared with a wide, disbelieving eye. "Helen also reduced the power requirement of the transfer to less than a thousandth of the process that you… have… but she had to invent a whole new language just to encode it. It's much smoother now too." _

_ "The pair of you frighten me," Owen admitted, and Arthur grinned. "Though one thing bothers me." He brought up the male design and expanded the midsection with a frown. "How does it get out?" _

_ "Destructively," Arthur said with a shrug. "It can't happen before transfer anyway. I cleaned the process up best I could, but no birthing is pretty." _

_ Owen stared at it a little longer. "So, like that old cinematic?" _

_ Arthur froze, caught off-guard. "No," he insisted, though he didn't look sure. "But I can see how you might assume that." He planted his elbows on the terminal and held his head in his hands. "And now I cannot  _ stop _ seeing it. Thank you, father,  _ so much, _ for that." _

_ A digitised groan echoed through the room. "If you're not going to get rid of him," Helen grumbled, "at least get rid of these fins down my back while you bicker. They're driving me crazy." _

_ "But they improve aerial manoeuvrability by over six percent," Arthur complained, lifting his head; his frizzy hair was now standing out erratically where his fingers had run through it. _

_ "You can keep them," Helen shot back, "but if my next vessel has them, then  _ neither _ of us is getting on my back. Clear?" _

_ "Clear," Arthur agreed hurriedly, and summoned a set of holographic tools with a gesture before bringing up the female form. "Did you need anything else, father?" _

_ "How is she talking?" Owen asked, curious despite himself; digital dictation was good, but none could so perfectly replicate tone in a real time conversation. _

_ "Magic," Arthur replied flippantly, his focus on adjusting the vessel's design to his mistress' whim. _

_ "Just, take care, son," Owen said gently, then sighed and walked towards the lift to the scorched surface. He had a defence against these new weapons. Arthur had said what he had brought him to tell, and was clearly out of patience. There was no point in lingering any longer. _

Owen closed his eyes, rumbling sadly. How many years had passed since then? Hundreds? Thousands? How long since he had taken that deep drop into the sea at the end of the world?

And yet, somehow, humanity had survived. Cast back to the iron age, if a little more learned than last time, but once again infesting the planet like a plague, spreading rapidly in their ignorance and greed, always taking without regard for what they were taking from. Perhaps this was a massive cycle, repeating over and over, the remains of each iteration consumed and lost forever. Undoubtedly, the weapons humanity had turned on itself had been a large contributor to the calamity, but perhaps it was inevitable.

Or maybe they really were solely responsible for their own near demise. It was impossible to say now, after the fact and without any equipment to speak of.

He opened his eyes and looked fondly to the two Nightlancers, playing obliviously on a ledge. Exactly how Arthur's data bit had come to be in their possession was a mystery, and how they were able to read it, even in a primitive way, even more so. Arthur would not have held onto it, he had no need when he knew everything already.

But at least one of them was his child. Owen had a hunch about the other, though how that was possible was a mystery too. Later, he might test it, gently probe for answers; he was reluctant to give them any instructions beyond what had been necessary, and even then.

But for now, the confirmation of Arthur's death was too fresh, however unsurprising. He had never gone this long without visiting, bringing news of the world and allowing Owen to meet his grandchildren, even if they were that in spirit only. But he knew now that the old adage of 'you don't choose your family' was not entirely true.

Time had taught him many such things, most of which Arthur had figured out very early in life. That much was evident in the design of his vessel, as over-engineered as it was, playing to all the strengths of family while physically preventing abuse almost in its entirety.

If only humanity had perished. He could have lived in peace, in this nest of his son's creations, for as long as he wanted. His own vessel was unique, necessarily large to accommodate the complex processes that perpetuated his life, but while he had never been particularly interested in organic reproduction, he had to admit there was a certain beauty to Arthur's solution; a cycle of life and rebirth, a fresh start in growing old and reviving anew, an elegance in how it fit into such a compact body. How easily he and Helen had survived the calamity was questionable, but if anything could, it would be the vessels they had designed for themselves.

Owen tore his gaze away from his grandchildren and inspected the new human in his presence, a truly massive man with a  _ very _ impressive beard. He wore instruments of barbarism, but there was an awe in his eyes that gave Owen pause.

He had flown here on a simpler dragon, one of Arthur's more basic prototypes, that much was clear; it was bowing nearby, recognising the authority programmed into it. Owen sent it an instruction, that it was free to make its own choices, that it was stronger than the human. He knew that some humans were accomplished at killing, but none had yet survived being encased in ice.

But it did not so much as blink. That would only be the case if the knowledge was not new or made no difference.

Owen hummed curiously, then blew a frost over the man; the dragons liked it, as did the woman that Cloudjumper had brought all those years ago, and it was an easy way of communicating favour. He bore the snow that settled into his clothes and hair with a self-assured pride, while the woman laughed and started brushing it off him.

Perhaps this was the start of something, a community of humans in his nest that would help to change the views of the rest of the world. He didn't know how they would survive, but they were tenacious things, he had to give them that much, and he wasn't immediately opposed to the idea… even if it did not thrill him. But humans were the most successful species.

Not the strongest, certainly not that. But where a thousand humans fell, there were ten thousand more to take their place, the very embodiment of legion. They would continue pressing in on his territory, learning his strengths and weaknesses, slowly improving their weapons, until they overpowered even him. He dreaded that day, but it was inevitable. Even after all this time, he did not feel ready for the peace of death.

But brooding over humans was becoming tiresome. His eyes drifted back to the Nightlancers, playing happily in a bed of thick moss. He was glad he was no longer human. His thoughts had been so noisy before, placing importance on too many things and blinding him to many truths. Now, these Nightlancers were important, and his soul burned bright and clear with that singular purpose. Perhaps, when winter approached and the humans in this region hunkered down to weather the cold, he would swim south and draw a number of eligible females up here for them to choose from. That  _ sounded _ like a terrible idea, but it was better than sending them to their eventual deaths. And the last he had seen of Arthur, he had been grief-stricken with how few of them were left in the world.

The antennae on his face pulsed, a data stream providing an offer of food, and then he slowly sank back into the water, savouring the eager, excited looks on his grandchildren's faces. It brought him happiness and peace, that they were happy here – and that was not even an instruction he had given them.

No, he wouldn't do that more than strictly necessary. Aside from some small conditional instructions to confirm Arthur's fate, he had firstly given them knowledge that here they would find shelter, sustenance, and protection from the dangers of the world for as long as they wanted. Secondly, an order to relinquish and forget the data bit and anything used to view it; he entirely doubted Arthur would have wanted them to have it, coincidences aside. And lastly, to overcome their innate intimidation of him.

Owen was still conflicted about that one. It was an insurmountable task while they had otherwise avoided him out of respect or fear or both, and he had grown impatient, but he could, over the course of probably years, have slowly shown they did not need to fear him.

His logic for doing so was perfectly reasonable. But what if he grew impatient again? It was a slippery slope. And as he herded schools of fish to the usual place with practised ease, he again wondered if he should revoke it. But that would require giving them  _ another _ instruction. It was better to just commit to never doing so again.

They weren't concrete instructions anyway – their trust could still be broken, and they could still find a reason to leave. He needed to  _ do _ something to keep them happy, which was much more fulfilling than just telling them to be happy; that would be demeaning and make them nothing more than his toys.

He broke the surface of the water and expelled the quivering fish high into the air, casting them up into his flock to be eagerly snatched and consumed. He had always thought of the dragons as his pets, but the two black figures that he settled back to watch were so much more than that.

They had a freedom here that Arthur's other children had not, given they had still been under their parents' wings. These Nightlancers were not trying to behave, not growled at when they so much as looked at the human in the nest. This was how they were designed to live, in small, close-knit families with none of the issues that plagued human society; or any society, as Arthur had believed, since they all required positions of power which was always susceptible to abuse and therefore coveted by those who would abuse it.

Here, Owen held the power, and he had no desire to use it. He  _ could _ have instructed them to fly for him. He  _ could _ have inspired playfulness and a desire to fly. Perhaps, a long time ago, he would have. But it was more rewarding to put in the small effort to give them a reason to fly, so that they did so on their own whim; there would be no beauty in their freedom if they were not truly free. It was also more captivating knowing that if he did not pay attention now, he would miss out; what was the point in watching if he could do so at any time he pleased?

So he watched them, entranced. Not only his son's work, his legacy, but his children too. Everything Owen had left of him. He would cherish them, protect them from the humans that would do them harm without a second thought, for as long as they wanted.


End file.
